


The Adventure of the Speaking Spectre

by Violsva



Category: The Great Mouse Detective (1986)
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Ghosts, Spiritualism, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 08:01:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8971102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violsva/pseuds/Violsva
Summary: Basil is surprised - and irritated - by a request that he investigate the ghost of a human.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cookinguptales](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cookinguptales/gifts).



It was a few years after my dramatic introduction to Basil of Baker Street, and London was having an uncharacteristically cold winter. Any expedition outside our cozy sitting room required layers of coats and scarves, and long minutes warming up afterwards. Mrs. Judson, however, provided hot fires and warm nourishing food, and Basil and I managed well enough indoors, though his experiments grew increasingly disturbing over time.

Yet a few clients did fight their way through the cold to our door, including a greengrocer, a fine young noblemouse heavily cloaked to hide her identity, a rough dockworker, and a respectable young mouse studying law. This last was Mr. Hennessey, with a case that was peculiar in that it revolved almost entirely around the humans he lived with.

“My bachelor lodgings,” he began, when we were settled in front of the fire, “are in Silver Street, beneath the residence of a very fine human family, the Marfords. They consist of Mr. Marford, a solicitor, his wife, and their daughter Emily Marford. She is a very fine young lady, decorous and very lovely, and deserving of all the fine things a human girl should have.” 

Mice have a wide variety of attitudes towards those larger beings with whom they share their lodgings, from disdain to something close to adoration. It was clear that young Mr. Hennessey was much closer to the latter end of the spectrum. I could tell Basil was not fascinated by these details of human family life, but he waved a paw to indicate Mr. Hennessey should continue.

“Miss Marford was engaged to be married to a Lieutenant Jacob Sheridan, a ship’s officer on the India route. When he was last in London, six months ago, they were making plans for the ceremony, though it would have to wait until the end of his next voyage. But on that voyage his ship met with a storm off of Africa, and everyone was lost. The poor girl had all her hopes and dreams destroyed at once when she received word.”

It was at this point that I realized that Mr. Hennessey was not taking a long time to come to the point; rather, these details about humans were the point of his story. I quickly scribbled them down in my notebook.

“Ever since she had the news, she has been dreadfully upset, of course. She wept for days, and was confined to her room. She has been dreaming of him every night. At last she begged her father to let her consult a medium, who had been recommended by an acquaintance. A Mrs. Tick.”

“And has this medium had any success?” asked Basil, yawning and staring at the ceiling.

“She has,” said Mr. Hennessey. “At least, according to Miss Marford she has. At every séance, she says, she has heard his voice. It is not merely table knockings or automatic writing; she claims he truly speaks, out of the air.”

“And you believe her?” asked Basil, eyebrows raised.

I thought Basil was expecting Mr. Hennessey to explain that he believed the medium was a fraud, and wanted us to drive her away, but instead our client shivered. “I am not sure. I would have been afraid her mind was going under the strain, except that I have also noticed drafts and odd noises.” He twitched his whiskers. “I did once observe a session from near the sitting room, but I was driven away by a terrible chill, and as I was leaving I swear I heard a ghostly voice calling for Miss Marford by name. It was very unsettling.”

“So what do you expect us to do?” asked Basil. “If it is a ghost, as you say -” his tone made it clear what he thought of that “- there is little Dawson or I can do to drive it off.”

Mr. Hennessey blushed red and wrung his paws. “I don’t _think_ it’s a ghost, Basil,” he said. “I would most of all like evidence that it isn’t, that it is some trick of the medium’s, and that Miss Marford can go on with her life. I don’t know how we can convince _her_ of that, but there must be a way. But I feel - that is, I was so - so startled by my own experience - I think one should be open to the possibility.”

“Hmph,” said Basil. “Well, I admit you should have the right to live in your own house without human mediums making you think it’s haunted.”

“Of course we will help,” I said, before Basil could grow even less complimentary. “It is likely just some very simple trick, but spiritualism can be very convincing.”

“Thank you,” said Mr. Hennessey. “And if it is a ghost, do you know any way -”

“No,” said Basil, “but we will deal with that possibility if it comes up.” He considered. “I think the easiest way would be to observe one of the séances firsthand. Then we will see what the medium is doing and know how we can prove she is a fraud to Miss Marford. You, of course, have already seen one, and would not have to stay.”

“Thank you, Mr. Basil, thank you,” said Mr. Hennessey, impulsively shaking Basil’s paw. “They are every Friday, at noon. Can you come this week?”

“I can,” said Basil. With more protestations of gratitude our client exited.

When he was gone Basil blew out a smoke ring and said, “Well, Dawson, what do you make of it?”

I frowned. “Well, it’s clear that you don’t think it’s Lieutenant Sheridan’s ghost.”

“No. She is in mourning, she thinks of him constantly - of course she dreams of him. Mediums are well known to be charlatans. Mr. Sherlock Holmes says ghosts do not exist, and surely he would know if they could be reconciled with logic. Do you disagree?”

“In that case,” I said, sidestepping the question, “one might say it would be a kindness to let her know the truth, so she can go on with her life. Though if the illusion is a comfort to her, perhaps not.”

“Hmpf,” said Basil. “I don’t think it is my job to support comforting illusions.”

“No. There’s no point to her living in the past. Though it will be difficult to communicate our findings to a human, whatever they are.”

“I don’t know how much we should be getting involved in human affairs at all - it seems likely to lead to unfortunate notice. Though our client clearly has no such qualms.”

“He does seem to be extremely attached to Miss Marford.”

“Hmm, yes. A rather ridiculous and undignified mindset in a mouse.”

My whiskers twitched as I thought about Basil’s not-entirely-dissimilar hero-worship of Mr. Holmes, but I didn’t say anything. Basil gave me a rather sharp look.

“Anyway, I suppose it is our duty to calm Mr. Hennessey’s fears about his house being haunted. And even if we convince him, I doubt he will be satisfied until Miss Marford has some peace of mind, so we might as well work towards both goals. Are you free this Friday, Dawson?”

“Of course I am, my dear fellow.”

“Excellent.”

*

We arrived a little before the medium was expected, in order to investigate the sitting room in advance. Mr. Hennessey welcomed us in and showed us up through the walls.

“Miss Marford and Mrs. Tick usually move the furniture around themselves, just before,” he explained. “They use that table, the round one. Mrs. Tick says it provides better vibrations.”

Basil grumbled something and darted out to examine the underside of the table. “No marks,” he said when I joined him. “No obvious contraptions, though I wouldn’t expect her to leave anything here anyway.” He backed out into the open and looked up. “No convenient hooks anywhere on the ceiling.” He dashed around a little more, muttering to himself, then said, “Well, it seems an ordinary sitting room so far. I haven’t time to examine the walls.”

There was the sound of footsteps outside, and we hurried back under an armchair as two women entered.

The younger was clearly Miss Marford, and by human standards she was nearly as beautiful as Mr. Hennessey had said. Her grief was clear enough - indeed, more clear than one would expect four months after the news. The dark circles under her swollen eyes suggested that she was still crying nightly. Both she and the other woman - clearly the medium - were wearing unrelieved black. The medium, Mrs. Tick, had greying hair and a mournful expression, and was draped with black lace shawls. She paused just inside the door.

“Is he still here?” Miss Marford asked.

Mrs. Tick smiled kindly. “The spirit is always watching over you, my dear, it simply needs help to be expressed.” Beside me I felt Mr. Hennessey shudder all over. “Let us prepare the room.”

Miss Marford closed the blinds on the windows as Mrs. Tick lit a candle and set it in the exact centre of the table. “I’ll leave now, if you don’t mind,” said Mr. Hennessey, as Mrs. Tick looked inside her carpetbag. “If you think you can manage now - it’s just - once was quite enough for me.”

“Mmhmm,” said Basil, not taking his eyes off the medium. “Go ahead. We’ll be by when it’s over.” Our host gratefully dashed away while the humans weren’t looking. In Basil’s investigations we had reached the opposite side of the room from his mouse hole.

“Now, my dear,” said Mrs. Tick, “let us sit, and wait for the spirit.” She turned off all the lamps in the room, and she and Miss Marford sat across the table from each other, their hands clasped, the candle in between them providing the only light.

“Close your eyes,” said Mrs. Tick, closing her own. From our vantage point we could see her face but not Miss Marford’s.

By my guess it was fifteen minutes or more before anything happened. I wondered if Mrs. Tick didn’t worry about her client getting bored. Perhaps she’d made some sort of speech at the first visit, but she didn’t now.

Then Mrs. Tick said, “Oh!” and I heard Miss Marford draw in a breath. She leaned forward in her chair.

The air in the room went back to stillness, but this time it did not _stay_ still. I shivered, and to my surprise felt Basil shiver as well. But it was natural - it was cold here, and becoming colder. As I looked around for the draught I heard a loud knocking sound from the table.

When I looked I could see nothing, but the tablecloth was in the way. Basil, not once having removed his gaze from Mrs. Tick, perhaps had seen more. But he was intent and determined, and I did not like to interrupt him.

It was very cold, however. Even the humans were shivering now. I saw Mrs. Tick’s feet move, and there was another loud knock. That made it seem like Basil was right that she was a fraud, but nothing she had done could explain the cold. My teeth were chattering and all my fur was sticking out.

“Basil,” I said, barely managing to get the word out, “is there some warmer vantage point?”

Basil glanced at me for just a second, and I saw that he was colder than I, hunched into a little ball, though still facing the séance. I thought perhaps he was trying to ignore it, as he sometimes did with any physical inconveniences during cases, but it was beyond ignoring. It felt by now as if we were standing outdoors under the winter sky.

“It might be wise,” he acknowledged, shivering as much as I had.

We backed out from under the chair and hastened to the wall, looking for a mouse hole - the close spaces inside the walls and under the floors hold heat better than humans’ huge draughty rooms. Close to the fireplace, we ducked under the baseboard and down, hoping some residual heat remained in the stones from the last fire.

But it was, impossibly, even colder there, and I found myself drawing closer to my companion. He did not push me away, as I had half expected, nor keep any distance between us as he usually did even if he acknowledged the need for contact. Instead as my paw reached for him his reached for me, and we clutched at each other, the cold wind still blowing past us, as if whatever was in the room above was sucking all the heat out of the air around. It was also brighter than it should be, somehow. My mind flashed to thoughts of ghastly glows and will-o’-the-wisps.

This was not any part of our client’s home; this was the uninhabited space between floors, useful for travelling through but devoid of comforts. Basil and I huddled together, pushed up against a beam, but it did little good. “Basil,” I gasped, “we should go back to Mr. Hennessey’s rooms, or at least try to find somewhere out of this wind.”

“Wind?” said Basil. “Yes, of course, wind! Excellent, Dawson. Come along.” To my surprise he started moving, pulling me with him, not, as I had hoped, to somewhere warm, but away from the centre of the building and towards the outer wall.

And then I heard a deep, ghostly voice croaking, “Emily. Emily. I love you. I love you.”

“Basil!” I said, grabbing hold of him and stopping him from moving closer. My eyes darted over the tight space we were in, looking for the source of the sound.

Basil was as startled as I, but his first instinct was to move forward, and I was forced to follow in case of trouble. We crept a short distance ahead.

“Aha!” Basil exclaimed as we found what he had clearly already suspected: a missing brick. No wonder we were cold; the space was open to the air.

“My Emily!” This time I could tell the voice was coming from outside. Basil crept up to the hole in the wall and looked down, then smiled and waved me over. I crept forward with caution, wishing that Basil himself would show caution rather than practically leaning out into empty space.

Perched on a sideways kink of the drainpipe was a brilliantly green bird with a bright red beak, which reminded me instantly of my time in the East. It cocked its head at us, flapped its wings with another gush of cold air, and said, “Emily. Emily.”

“The Indian ring-necked parakeet!” said Basil. “This is the answer, Dawson!” He leaned still further, and I grabbed his collar and pulled him back in.

“This is the source of the drafts and the noises,” Basil continued, barely seeming to notice his near fall. “A missing brick and a trained parrot! Now, if we -”

“Basil, can’t we discuss it once we’re out of this cold?”

“Oh! Quite right, my dear fellow. My sincere apologies. You’re right, I think there is nothing we can do for the séance at this moment. Come, let us retire to Mr. Hennessey’s apartment, where hopefully the fire will be well-stoked.”

*

In our client’s sitting room Basil paced in front of the fire as he explained his theories. Mr. Hennessey had been very relieved at Basil’s declaration that there was no ghost.

“You see, Dawson, it was merely a trained parrot, nothing supernatural at all.”

“But Basil,” I said, “a parakeet wouldn’t -”

“Ah!” he interrupted. “While indeed most parrots are tropical birds, _this_ particular parakeet is a native of the Himalayan mountains, and so would be capable of surviving a London winter!”

“No, I know that. I spent some time in India before I went to Afghanistan. But I’ve heard parakeets speak before while I was there. They don’t sound like what we heard at all. Their voices are very high pitched.”

He frowned at me, and then his expression became tolerant. “My dear Dawson, I suppose you may be disappointed by the loss of a chance to see a ghost, but I assure you, everything has been accounted for. Perhaps the medium has trained it. Though I think she isn’t malicious. Hmm. Furthermore, it would be far too much work to train it differently for each of her clients, and keep it from using the wrong names. No, likely its arrival was as surprising to her as it was to you, Dawson.” I suspected that Basil had not been entirely sanguine at the sound of the voice either, but I said nothing. He grinned. “She may think that she has suddenly accessed powers that she did not know she had.”

“Hmph,” I said. “That’s not it. Where did the parrot come from? Why are its words so very pertinent to Miss Marford’s situation? If this is the correct solution, you must have an explanation for that as well.”

Basil frowned harder, but said, “Yes, very true, doctor. The answers are quickly becoming clear now that I know the source of the confusion. Remember that Lieutenant Sheridan was on the India route. Clearly this is a pet he brought back from India himself, which somehow escaped. I believe there is some tradition among the Indian people that associates parrots with love, so it may even have been intended as a pet for Miss Marford. This would explain why he taught it her name - it would provide company for her while he was gone. Therefore the only question remaining is how it came here, and how we could mistake its voice for a human’s. No doubt he meant to bring it to her, but it somehow escaped, and he could not recapture it.”

“And how did it get to this house?”

Basil waved his hands. “Imagine, Dawson, Lt. Sheridan, holding a large birdcage on his lap in a hansom cab. He alights from the cab and pays the driver, but then another carriage drives past as he starts toward her door. He stumbles, he recovers his balance, the birdcage goes flying and the door springs open. The parrot flies off, but having come to this neighbourhood anyway, decides it is as good a place as any to make its home.”

He paced a few steps more. “It is really only the voice that is still a trifle puzzling, my dear Dawson. Clearly it is some trick of acoustics in the small space,” he said. “It might sound entirely different in a large room. But I am uncertain how to prove it. And since we cannot catch the parrot in a birdcage of our own and introduce it into the parlour during a séance, we will need to find some other way to convince Miss Marford -”

He stopped, one finger in the air. “That’s it! Dawson, we must introduce the parrot at the next séance!”

He grinned at me, hoping for me to agree he was brilliant, but I only said, “We’ll have to catch it first.”

“We shall merely encourage it through the sitting room window. It may take a little surprise, but I am sure we can manage to come up with that. Hmm.”

Basil bent his head and appeared to bury himself in thought, but I was thinking too. “Basil,” I said, “we can’t. The sitting room window was closed.” Otherwise, of course, the cold in the room would not have been at all surprising.

“Then we shall have to open it, my dear fellow.”

“Ourselves?”

“Mr. Hennessey?” asked Holmes.

“Yes sir?” I wondered how long out of school the chap was.

“Are the house windows sash or casement?”

Mr. Hennessey frowned. “Ah, casement, I believe.”

“Good,” said Basil. “Then there should be no difficulty.”

“Basil!” I said, for even a casement window would certainly pose a difficulty. “Anyway, what do you think Miss Marford will do when she sees it?”

Basil blinked at me. “She will see that it is only a bird, and not any sort of spirit, and she’ll lose her delusions. It’s the only logical response.”

“Are you sure of that, Basil?”

Basil tutted. “Of course, my dear fellow. At the very least, it will be clear that the medium is doing nothing. It shall take Miss Marford’s mind off ghosts and memories.”

It would, I thought, at least do that. Perhaps Miss Marford would even take a liking to the bird.

*

Mr. Hennessey’s rooms were near the centre of the house, with no direct exit, so we left the house by a long passageway under the first floor. As we went we heard voices from above, and Basil stopped me and crept up to listen through the floorboards. “Her parents, I believe,” he whispered when I joined him.

“It has been six weeks and she has done no good,” said a woman.

“She’s done no harm, either,” said a man.

“That’s not sufficient reason to pay her ten pounds a sitting! And Emily should be recovering, thinking of her future, not still crying every night after four months.”

“It has been _only_ four months, dear. I should hope after my death you’d wait a little longer before wearing colours.”

“Well, of course I would, but they weren’t married yet, and she’s so young.”

“Give her more time, Anna. If she’s the same in a year I will agree with you, but for now she needs time. We can easily afford the medium.”

“I’m not saying we can’t, but I don’t approve of her, at all. She’s profiting off grief, and Heaven knows what she believes in. I don’t want Emily under her influence.”

“I think that after enough time Emily herself will decide that she is finished with such things. Forbidding her to see the woman now will only make her stubborn. She’s been well brought up, and she’ll come back to herself after she’s had some time.”

“But -”

“I do think that she should start going out on visits and such with you again. I’ll help you convince her of that. She’ll find other friends and interests again. I just don’t think you can hurry her right now.”

“My parents would never have indulged such fancies.”

“And I’m sure I remember you complaining of that before our marriage!”

“Really, Edmund!”

There were footsteps right above us, and then fading. “If she tries to stop going to church, you remember what I thought of all this,” said the woman. The man said something reassuring, and a door closed.

“Hmm,” said Basil. “Not very useful, but I am glad this house is not entirely saturated with superstition.”

“Really, Basil!” I said.

“We have a solution now, Dawson, and Miss Marford certainly isn’t going to hear me. Well, come along, anyway.”

*

The next week Basil and Mr. Hennessey and I again waited in the sitting room during a séance. As soon as Miss Marford had closed the blinds we had all gathered in the narrow space between them and the window-glass. In the garden on the other side was Toby, borrowed for the afternoon and waiting for Basil’s whistle to tell him to bark. With us in the gap were two pencils, for Basil and Mr. Hennessey to push the casements open with.

Basil was climbing the curtains with one end of a length of string tucked in his belt. When he reached the level of the handle he edged across the muntin to the centre, and tied the string to the handle. As he let himself back down the string, the handle moved slightly, but it was clear it would take all our effort to shift it. Accordingly, Mr. Hennessey and I lined up behind Basil.

“Oh!” said Mrs. Tick in the room behind us, just as she had the previous week.

We all three pulled hard, and I heard the latch click as the handle turned. The window slipped outward a little.

“Excellent,” said Basil. “Dawson, get in position.” I ducked under the blind and found the pull cord. In the darkness I hoped I would be hidden even if one of the ladies was distracted from the séance.

“All right, ready,” said Basil. I saw the end of the pencils move as he and Mr. Hennessey pushed the sides of the casement open.

The wind surged behind the blind. I took a deep breath, grabbed hold of the blind cord, and pulled with all my might. The blind shifted a little, and I checked to make sure I would not be caught on the cord before releasing it. The blind whizzed up and banged the top of the frame.

I had thought I would have a minute to get clear, but the parrot was already flying through the window, before Basil or Toby could have acted at all. I must admit I scurried to the corner to get out of its path. Basil was staring in surprise at the bird.

“Emily!” it called. “Emily!”

Miss Marford screamed.

The parrot circled the room, flashing in and out of the light from the open window. It settled on the centre of the table, between Miss Marford and the medium, and said, “I love you!” Its voice was still deep, even in the open room.

Miss Marford had covered her head as the bird swooped around her; now she jumped to her feet and backed away from the table, knocking over her chair in the process. The bird flapped its wings in surprise.

“Miss Marford!” said Mrs. Tick. “I think this bird is a messenger from your departed beloved!”

“She’s quick to take advantage of the situation,” Basil whispered. “Perhaps she did train it.”

“It can’t be!” said Miss Marford. “Get it out, put it out!”

“Emily!” said the bird.

“Calm yourself,” said Mrs. Tick, in her soothing tone. “It certainly will not harm you.”

The bird flapped its wings as if preparing to take off, and Miss Marford gasped and waved her arms in front of her face. “Get it outside!” she begged. “Get it out!” She looked close to developing what humans call hysterics.

Mrs. Tick, clearly deciding that there was no way to recover the moment, rose and crossed to Miss Marford. “Calm, my dear,” she said. “Hush. What is so distressing?”

“I can’t stand birds,” said Miss Marford, her voice strained. “Get it out, please!”

The bird said “Emily!” again, and leapt into flight, careening toward Miss Marford. She screamed and ducked, her hands over her head, and Mrs. Tick flapped her hands at the parrot and guided it toward the window.

The parrot flew out next to us, and Mrs. Tick pulled the casements shut and then frowned a little at the latch. Basil and I crouched behind the curtains, and she quickly went back to comfort Miss Marford, who was now weeping from the shock.

“I could never stand them,” said Miss Marford through her tears. “They’re horrible and dirty and they’ll get in my hair...”

Mrs. Tick wrapped her arm around the girl’s shoulders and took her out of the room.

“Well,” said Basil, a bit rattled, “perhaps that’s it for the séances.”

*

It was, as far as Miss Marford went. Mr. Hennessey reported that she recovered well from her scare, and also ended the séances. She seemed calmer, after a day or so of shock. She kept all the windows closed and put draught-excluders under every door, but she rarely wept at night now, and she spoke of her fiancé as one gone and to be fondly but not passionately remembered. Mr. Hennessey himself was relieved to have the possibility of a spectre in the house firmly excluded, and calmed down himself. Basil wrote off the case as finished.

I thought, however, that the matter was not quite as simple as Basil thought it was. We passed Silver Street two months later, while investigating another case, and I believe I saw Miss Marford. She was in slightly reduced mourning, with a touch of white, and talking animatedly with a friend. But there was a flash of green above her, and she turned and waved her hand at it angrily. She had none of the shock and tears from the séance - I suspected that reaction had been due more to the surprise than anything else - only annoyance. The bird fluttered away resignedly and perched on a lamppost where it could still see her and the front door of the house. When we returned from our errand it was still there.


End file.
